I Am Juden Read online

  The office blinds were promptly lowered. For twenty minutes, we prisoners were left completely unguarded. We could have fled, but remained, whispering, hypnotised. Eventually, one of the soldiers came out with the keys to the Horch and ordered Dusan to clean and valet.

  From the Belarussian newspaper and food-wrappers we found on the back seat, we deduced the SS officer had come from the Eastern Front. Everybody had heard horror stories about what was happening on the lawless steppes. Although I have no evidence, and don’t even know the officer’s name, I suspect now that he was one of the ‘brave and fearless’ leading the Einsatzgruppe units. The man we saw that evening was a human wreck, glued together purely by the power of military discipline.

  A little after ten o’clock, an air of what I can only call ‘normality’ settled on our little band. Banished again from the office, the portly soldier had retaken his chair against the wall. He angled it now so he could see little beyond the fair-haired lad with the hose-pipe. The ‘elbow grease’ taunts resumed, although the boy scrubbed the yellow van so furiously between blasts that he might have done the paint stripper’s job in addition to his own. I could hardly bear to watch, but I would not look away. Like the narrator in a Franz Kafka story, I yearned to find the person in charge of this madness. Look here, I’d explain, there’s been a terrible misunderstanding. This boy should be at home, tucked up in his bed. His parents will be frantic with grief. Sort it out, could you, old chap? But the senior officer was a drunken ruin and the only other soldier I knew had earlier blown an old man’s brains out for walking arm in arm with his wife.

  ‘Right,’ the portly guard grudgingly huffed. ‘Looks like I’ll have to show you.’

  He swung to his feet and lumbered over to the lad with his arm outstretched. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to touch you. Give me the hose.’

  The boy turned off the tap and surrendered the pipe.

  ‘Go on,’ the guard said, motioning to the tap. ‘Full blast, don’t hold back’.

  The boy twisted the nozzle until the hose thickened like a powerful snake. Whistling while he ran it across the windscreen, the guard beckoned for the boy to step closer and observe his technique. I wondered why he felt the need to instruct the boy now, so late in the day. We had cleared the back-log of vehicles from the courtyard; after the yellow van, there was nothing more to be washed. The boy approached. From a point-blank distance, the guard jerked the hose and fired into the boy’s face, then shook it up and down, dousing him from head to foot.

  Dropping the hose, the guard folded over with laughter. He managed to wheeze, ‘Said I wouldn’t touch you.’

  The pipe span on the floor, hissing and spitting, until one of the men scrambled to turn it off. Still grinning, the guard walked out the rear door and came back a couple of minutes later with a towel and a pile of clean clothes. The boy looked around for somewhere to change, and his gaze settled on a tall lorry jacked up in the corner that had previously had three cherries painted on its side.

  ‘Uh uh,’ the guard nodded with an artfully pained smirk. ‘Can’t have you dripping all over the workspace, I’m afraid.’

  The boy looked from me to Dusan, who could do nothing but shrug.

  Clothes slopped to the floor as the youngster unpeeled layers from his white skin. We’d all stopped working now, but none of us knew where to look, except the guard.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, we all shrivel up a bit when we get cold,’ I heard him say. ‘We’ll soon get you warmed up.’

  When the boy was finally dressed in a too small t-shirt and trousers, the guard put an arm around his shoulder and led him away. I didn’t see either of them again.

  We cleaned and mopped the garage to Dusan’s satisfaction and were left wondering what would happen next. A ferret-faced soldier I had not seen before emerged from the office, with the resolute face of a man who had drawn the shortest straw.

  ‘Everybody outside,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you home.’

  I’m not sure anybody believed him, but the magic word had been spoken, and it cast a powerful spell.

  Home.

  We assembled in the courtyard. The only vehicle left was the SS officer’s gleaming Horch. The passenger car could have taken six at a squeeze. There were eleven of us, plus the soldier.

  ‘Single file,’ he ordered. ‘Two metres apart and no talking since we’re past curfew. You’ve worked well tonight, so don’t make any trouble now.’

  A foolish voice cried, ‘We have to walk?’

  ‘He means you needn’t escort us,’ I said quickly. ‘We can find our own homes.’

  ‘Orders are orders. I need to personally see you’re taken back where we found you, otherwise we get into trouble. The Red Cross are very hot on missing people. There’s a war on, you know.’

  ‘So are we being taken home,’ someone asked, ‘or back where we were picked up?’

  ‘Where we found you,’ the soldier patted the chest pocket of his tunic. ‘All details here. And I’ll need statements from neighbours to prove you’re safe and sound, so we’d better get a move on or we’ll be knocking up little old ladies.’

  ‘What about the young lad who got a soaking?’

  The soldier removed the details his pocket, unfolded it and traced his finger down the margins of a long list. ‘Lives in Paupys, just over the river. He’s probably home by now. Come on, the city’s not getting any smaller while we stand here.’

  I fell into line behind Dusan, with whom I’d struck up a rapport based more on wry smiles and wrinkles than the twenty-odd words we’d spoken. Since Dusan wasn’t Jewish, I was surprised to see him still with us. He must have committed some kind of infringement, or else was just unlucky enough to be the first mechanic the soldiers found.

  The line started moving along the barbed wire fence between the shadow of the Cheap Houses to the gate, still open from the arrival of the SS officer.

  We left the compound behind and marched back along Subocz Street. The old Akiva house was dark and shuttered for the evening. I wondered if I’d ever see it again.

  The soldier stayed behind at the end of the line, shouting directions as my two captors had done from the bus station. This one also gave a stern yell whenever anybody turned round or tried talking. Singing, however, was allowed, despite the curfew. We went through a prayer book of holy songs before settling on Ani Ma’amin to guide us into the unknown. Between verses, somebody hit upon the idea of chanting the location of their capture (and supposed return), so we knew where we were meant to be heading. Before long, a virtual street map of names was yipping up and down the line, and the soldier was none the wiser. To us, hearing those familiar street names was as reassuring as Ani Ma’amin’s’ principles of faith.

  Returned to the civilian world, under the streetlights’ watchful glare, I became hopeful that the soldier was telling the truth. If the Germans wanted to harm us, they’d have done it in the garages, out of sight and sound, not on our own front-door steps.

  The suburbs slowly receded. We criss-crossed our way north-west towards the bombed out Old Town, where most of us had been snatched. Above us on Gediminas Hill, the western tower of the castle had scored a direct hit, one side completely shorn away. A platform of scaffolding was raised now around the stump like Bruegel’s Tower of Babel, although those mythical turrets were still in the process of being raised, while ours had been torn down.

  The closer we drew to the city centre, the more halting our progress became, as V1 craters and rubble blocked the narrow streets. The soldier drove us on. Scenting home, or at least release from bondage, we spurred our bodies.

  At Gediminas Avenue and Lukiskes Street, we had no choice but to come to a complete stand-still. A procession of dapper, briefcase-carrying gentlemen appeared round the corner, and the line kept coming until a hundred had swallowed up our pavement. From the trimmed beards and beautifully cut overcoats and trousers, I recognized these men as the remnants of the city’s Jewish intelligentsia.

  C
oated in oil and grease, one hand tucked into my shirt to clutch my separated ribs, I wondered what specimen of poverty the professors took me for, and if they’d ever believe that I had once belonged to their tribe, in Germany of all places. Our two groups stared open-mouthed as we passed, each silently berating the other for allowing themselves to get caught up in such foolishness. Three soldiers brought up the rear, and then the troop was gone, disappearing into the night.

  The ferret-faced soldier ordered us to make a loop through a narrow vaulted backstreet, and on the other side of the road, the five shining domes of the baroque prison chapel glinted under the moonlight. It was easy to forget that yards away from the national parliament, in the very heart of the city, the gun-towers of Lukiskes prison speared the sky. The complex was originally built by Tsar Nicholas II to detain his enemies. Half a century later, the Russians invaded and their secret police put the building to a similar use. Now the prison was under the control of the Nazis.

  We marched past a group of four SS officers smoking at the gates. I could see the refuge of the Savicko Street turning about twenty yards further down the road, but behind me an unfamiliar voice called a halt. I heard our ferret-faced soldier shout, ‘I have orders to escort these men home.’

  ‘Curfew papers will need to be checked,’ the SS officer replied with a certain exaggerated weariness.

  ‘Come on then, men.’ Our soldier cajoled us back. ‘This won’t take long.’

  He stood in the middle of the road like a patient crossing-guard while we reassembled on the other side. After the last of us had lined up before the gate, the soldier started to confer with the SS officers, although at no point did he remove our list of addresses from his tunic pocket. I was watching the two so intently that I did not see the other three SS officers break away and fan out behind us. The first I knew was when they charged with batons raised, shrieking German curses. We panicked like a flock of backyard hens. No hope of flight, we could only burst forward, through the prison gate which had come open. On the pavement outside, the SS fell about laughing at their stunt. My capture, commencing six hours ago outside the bus station, was now complete.

  We crashed into a courtyard where several hundred other prisoners waited in rigid formation while their names were called by an officer on a raised platform at the front. Behind the church hulked the fearsome cell-blocs, the profane grafted onto the sacred by Tsar Nicholas’ sleight of hand. Together with a flood of new arrivals who poured into the yard from the corners, we were directed to an area of the yard that had been partitioned off. I recognized the red rope and brass stanchions from the days when Jews were allowed to make deposits at the Bank of Lithuania.

  I lost sight of Dusan and my fellow mechanics and was now shuffling forward amongst strangers. As I surveyed the ranks, I was encouraged (as much as a feeling of cheer could flourish) by what I saw: the courtyard was stocked exclusively with able-bodied males, from burly teenagers to solid, forty-somethings. Unlike the academics and poets being marched along Gediminas Avenue, we had been brought here for our strength and productivity, handpicked by the SS as a connoisseur inspects horseflesh.

  This was confirmed by the officer who now strode up and down the line, demanding only our ages. I don’t think a single one told the truth. The last time most of these men had seen fit to lie about their date of birth was when they’d rushed to sign up for Germany in the Great War, twenty five years ago.

  There were perhaps fifty of us in the rope lines, and we were quickly processed. Scarcely had I come to terms with my new confinement than we were led away, filing along a yellow, crumbling brick wall covered with graffiti towards the prison interior. We stopped at a little window crossed with bars in a heavy handle-less door. A buzzer went off, and the door clicked open.

  Inside we squeaked along a twisting corridor that deposited us inside a large function hall last used as a ballroom. A fug of cigar smoke clung to the walls like mould. On stage, a string quartet’s circle of chairs was arranged around a stand of empty brass lecterns. Dining tables were pushed to the sides of the room to clear a space for dancing.

  Once we were all inside, SS instructions came thick and fast, the last: Stand-still, Move over there, Don’t talk, Answer in German. Each order contradicted the last, a policy seemingly designed to elicit vicious truncheon blows, which were not shy in coming. While our panic was subdued, more officers filed into the room clutching cardboard boxes. They lined up against the far wall and placed the boxes at their feet. The doors were closed and bolted. A loudspeaker was passed from gloved hand to hand, finally coming to rest at an immense, sweating officer who stepped out from the middle of the line, puffing his cheeks like a trumpeter. The loudspeaker crackled to life at his chest with a jolt of static feedback.

  ‘Attention, attention. Thank-you for remaining quiet. In the last few hours, we have received intelligence of a significant threat from Bolshevik terrorists. The city centre has been evacuated. You have been brought here for your own protection. Our troops are working through the night to apprehend the aggressors and return your streets to safety. This is expected to take several hours. You will remain here under our care until the morning. Please assist us by remaining calm. We will shortly be relocating from the front of the building into the more fortified blocks, where you will be protected from any explosions. Due to overcrowding, some of you may be sharing cells with existing inmates. To eliminate the risk of violence, we ask you to deposit all valuables with us for safe-keeping. All jewellery, watches, money and other sundry valuables. Individual bags will be issued, together with name-tags and pencils. Fill and clearly identify your bag and tie it securely with a firm knot. You will receive a numbered ticket upon receipt. Do not lose this ticket. In the eventuality that any mislabeled bags are lost, the German government will honour all valid claims. Belongings will be stored in the armoury vault overnight. You may nominate up to five men to be responsible for transporting the bags and remaining with them until morning. Rest assured, the German army will not sleep until the terrorists have been apprehended. We thank-you for your understanding in these matters. Please continue to act in an orderly fashion while we expedite your security.’

  A third of the officers picked up their boxes, removed handfuls of miniature pencils and paper tags and began handing them out. While we started writing our names and addresses, the remaining officers distributed the leather pouches. The pencils were cheap and a few broke as they pressed against our palms, but we were not shouted at or hit for damaging army property. Some of the SS officers even made jokes about inferior Polish workmanship as they tossed replacements. I removed my watch, wallet and the last few Litas from my pocket. To protect the smooth face from being scratched by coins, I wrapped the watch in tissue paper before placing everything in the pouch, using my wallet as an additional buffer between copper and glass. When we were finished, the officers put the filled pouches back in the boxes and tore us numbered red tickets from a thick book, as promised. Two prisoners volunteered to watch over the bags and were directed to the full boxes. I thought about putting myself forward, but decided I’d rather look out for people than property. The whole process took less than five minutes.

  A few men asked for permission to kneel down as the boxes were being stacked against the wall. I wondered if they were going to pray but instead they removed their shoes and pressed the tickets into the soles. I placed mine in my shirt pocket.

  We were marched out of the ballroom towards the blocks, but separated into groups of five along the way. I wondered if these were to be our cell-mates for the evening, but instead an officer took us to a long corridor of dark green wooden doors. Four of us stood outside while the first in our group was taken in. I was third in line. If what we’d been told about the terror threat was true, I wondered if this entire pantomime was a prelude to a mass interrogation. The Germans didn’t need an excuse, of course. But if their assurances had been designed to minimise resistance, the strategy was a great success. Part of me fea
red I would never see the prisoner again, but he appeared unharmed after a couple of minutes, rejoining us against the wall. We were forbidden to ask him about the interview. Unnecessary conversation, we were told, would add to the atmosphere of confusion and jeopardize our safety.

  When it was my turn, I was called into the small room and told to sit opposite two SS officers, one of whom would ask questions, he explained, while his colleague printed my answers on an index card. There were four plastic boxes of cards on the table. The room had no windows and one bare light-bulb on a frayed cable.

  The officer in charge had a soft, kindly face but his brow was permanently furrowed and he kept pinching his nose between the bridge of his narrow spectacles as if in some discomfort. He began by asking my name, date and place of birth. I answered truthfully, in impeccable German. The kindly officer stared at me, one eyebrow rising.

  ‘Are you Jewish?’ he said.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You don’t look Jewish.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help that, sir.’

  His questions had departed from the script, and the second man stopped recording my answers.

  ‘Mother and grandmother?’

  ‘We are Jewish through and through.’

  ‘What a shame. How do you speak German so fluently?’

  ‘I worked in Kiel for fourteen years. My friends were German.’

  ‘Worked as what?’

  I was about to say I’d been a professor when I recalled the procession of intellectuals being marched away on Gediminas Avenue.

  ‘I was a shoe-maker.’